


When the Clouds Roll By

by Meldanya



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: After many days, F/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:45:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6386083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meldanya/pseuds/Meldanya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1942. Occupied France. Phryne Fisher is working as a British intelligence officer, focused on surviving. Her heart stops when she meets another agent: she would give anything to keep him out of danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Clouds Roll By

She propped her rusty bicycle up against the wall of the safe house, wrapping her thick shawl close around her. Her instructions were clear. Rendezvous with an Agent Antoine, safely escort him to a predetermined destination. Then onto the next assignment. Don’t get caught. Stay alive. 

She walked into the house, and her vision whirled when she saw the man leaning against the mantelpiece. Briefly, she thought this war had finally destroyed her sanity. Then he met her eyes, and she knew he was real. He swallowed. A light cough. 

They didn't say a word. How could they? What could they say, without raising suspicions?

They started their mission. Biking through occupied France to their destination. 

_ Did you have any boyhood dreams, Jack?  _

She caught a glimpse of herself in a window. Black hair with long streaks of grey, pulled back untidily. Ancient clothes. Looking every bit the inconspicuous Frenchwoman she was supposed to be. 

He looked at her with a wry smile and raised eyebrow. _How is it, Miss Fisher, that you always seem to turn up when I’m on the job?_ It was a cruel joke to see Jack Robinson again, and not be able to banter.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be back in Melbourne, preferably safely behind a desk somewhere, running reports, training others. Not here. Not risking capture. Torture. Death in a camp. 

They kept riding. They wordlessly evaded the German patrols, effortlessly coordinating as if they had never stopped tracking murderers together.

It was late evening as they arrived at the second safe house, and were stowed for the night in a hidden barn loft. She pulled out two blankets from her basket for them. In the last of the daylight, she studied his face. More angular. More stern than it had been 13 years before. His patient, kind eyes though -- those were unchanged, as he held her gaze in the dim light. He reached and tentatively took her hand. 

The sun set, they were in darkness. The silence became unbearable: to stop from talking, she pressed his hand to her lips. His slow, ragged exhale wafted through her hair. A miniscule movement, then his lips were on hers, and their tongues forgot about speech.

_ Is it too late? Never.  _

That night in the pitch-black loft, they held each other, and made love so quietly, so carefully that even the barn mice wouldn't notice. But to her, it seemed like every German in the area would be able to hear the explosion in her body. 

_You know what it’s like when you think life is fleeting and that you might die at any moment._ This moment made Madagascar look like a ride on the Scenic Railway.

Afterwards, she felt those fingers tracing her skin, writing messages that couldn’t be uttered.

In the early dawn light, they untangled their bodies, put their clothes in order, and began the next stage of their journey.

Before mid-afternoon, they arrived at the spot where they were to split ways. She dropped her bike, and turned to look at him, her mind racing with apologies, confessions, tales of the past hard decade, everything she had ever wanted to say to him. She knew that this was probably her last chance. And she didn’t dare risk it. 

Instead, she brought her hand up to his lapel (so rough, nothing like a fine wool suit). _Please be careful._ He squeezed her hand to his heart. _You be careful too._

He carefully looked around, then leaned in close. She finally got to hear that voice again, softly in fluent German, “Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich, nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich, der aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.” Rainer Maria Rilke. _I’ll pass that onto my German teacher._

He went one way, she went the other. Onto their next assignments. Don’t get caught. Stay alive. 

_The love that I have_  
_Of the life that I have_  
_Is yours and yours and yours._

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Chapter 42 of Fire Sign's [500 Words You Should Know](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4838696/chapters/14477203)
> 
> If Phryne is in England at the outbreak of the WW2, I feel like she would almost definitely end up working for the British Special Operations Executive. How Jack ended up doing intelligence work in German-occupied France, as opposed Australian intelligence work in the Pacific, is another story. 
> 
> The English translation of the Rilke poem (from 2x10 Death on the Vine):  
>  _But all that touches us, you and me,_  
>  _takes us, together, like the stroke of a bow,_  
>  _that draws one chord out of the two strings._
> 
> The poem at the end is an excerpt from [The Life That I Have](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Life_That_I_Have), which was used for a poem code by the SEO during the war. 
> 
> The title is a line from a WWI song [Til We Meet Again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsuwJHhECLg).


End file.
